


The God and the Mask

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Dealing With Trauma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nazi Nurse, OMC is Diego, tumblr inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins when Diego, a major player for StrexCorp with a sadistic streak, abducts Cecil and makes him pay for his attempts at subversion.</p><p>It ends with Carlos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Acceptable Substitute

**Author's Note:**

> If this is at all difficult to follow, please let me know and I'll correct and add explanations as necessary.
> 
> It's based on the slight AU created by Nazi Nurse on Tumblr; the AU is mostly canon compliant, but includes further details about StrexCorp and Kevin specifically. Diego is Nazi Nurse's creation. 
> 
> This first chapter is based on this specific prompt on her tumblr: http://nazi-nurse.tumblr.com/post/66502362709/diego-loves-kevin-but-he-doesnt-have-enough-of-him-and
> 
> Also, the three parts of this story were originally written as three separate fics in the same general continuity, and so each has a slightly different style than the rest.

Diego watches with fascination as Cecil Palmer rouses from sleep. He has seen other doubles—he spearheaded the doppelganger project, after all—but they always struck him as effectively identical until now. Some slight differences in gene expression, hair and eye color mostly, but only noticeable if you had the two side-by-side. But this—this is another experience entirely. The man bound to the chair sleeps like his Kevin, his head nodded against his chest, his eyes shut, his face twitching with hellish dreams. And like Kevin, he is beautiful.

But he is not Kevin. There are fewer laugh lines in his face, his teeth are blunt, his hair and eyes all wrong.

He is Night Valian, and the drugs pass through his system far faster than through Kevin’s. He twitches, rises, and moans so low and sweet that Diego forgives him for not being Kevin.

His eyes flutter open, dim at first and growing brighter, and he tilts his head at Diego.

“C… Carlos?” His voice is so velvet-soft when it’s slurred. “Are you allr… what… what happened?”

Diego saunters in a wide ring around the radio host until he stands behind him. Traces his fingers over cheeks that are so much like Kevin’s.

“What indeed?” he purrs into Cecil’s ear, and the Night Valian goes still.

“You’re not Carlos.”

Diego grins. “You haven’t been a very efficient employee, Cecil. Wasting time with those silly editorials and those coded messages. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

His sharp teeth catch on Cecil’s earlobe, drawing blood and making him hiss in pain.

“My Kevin has been working even harder to compensate for your lack of professionalism. He’s so industrious. But I’m afraid that doesn’t leave him much time for me.” The blood is running down Cecil’s neck now. It’s such a pretty shade of red. “If my Kevin has to cover for you, it’s only fitting you return the favor. That unprofessional streak might come in handy.”

Cecil’s eyes are wide like terror, like lust, and Diego licks the stripe of red from his throat. He tastes of sweat and copper and the sweet chemicals that are even now leaving his body—like Kevin, but without the tang of the expensive aftershave Diego buys him, or the second-hand musk from baby raccoons that never make it to adulthood. Diego can fix that. Make this substitute taste right and smell right and act right, just like his Kevin.

He doesn’t get to dwell on the thought when Cecil slams their heads together. Diego stumbles back, silver flashing across his eyes.

“Don’t you touch me,” Cecil snarls, and his mouth is twisted into something dark and angry.

That won’t do at all.

“No, it won’t.” Diego turns away, comes back with leather straps that restrain Cecil’s head. The one against his forehead digs into his third eye and makes him hiss. The one around his throat smothers the hiss before it can leave his throat. Now his breaths come in short little gasps, like Kevin in those precious seconds before he spills himself across his stomach.

The thought brings a smile to Diego’s lips.

“You have such a beautiful mouth,” Diego croons. “What a waste to let it frown.”

He buries a needle in Cecil’s cheek, brings it out bloody, and drives it in again. Every stitch drags a crystal scream from that beautiful voice. Every stitch fastens a lovely smile on his face.

More blood wells from the holes, and Diego laps it away with a careful tongue.

Cecil struggles, his thrashes against the restraints so sharp and aborted they feel like a seizure. Diego climbs onto his lap, but the added weight does nothing to still the radio host. Instead he struggles harder, every movement rubbing delightfully through the layers of fabric.

“So excited for me!” Diego gushes. “You’ll make a lovely substitute.”

“Not interested.” His mouth sewn, his throat crushed, Cecil can barely hiss, but he loads the words with the sweetest venom. “I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

 “Oh yes,” Diego purrs. “The scientist. I’ve seen him. He looks a bit like me, don’t you think?” He rakes his teeth along Cecil’s jaw, opening new lines of blood.

Cecil tries to retort, but all that comes out is a choked “gh!”

“But I’m far more attentive. You’ll see. I’ll make you feel so good you won’t remember his name.” He moves in for a kiss this time, his mouth tender against the lines of stitching, and dips his tongue between Cecil’s stretched lips. It’s intoxicating—the sharp tang of blood blended with Cecil’s own unique flavor—and Diego presses himself harder against his new pet.

“Oh Palmer,” he giggles. “You’re delicious.”

A second giggle is cut short when Cecil bites down on his tongue. When he pulls back, he finds the radio host glaring at him.

“Only Carlos gets to call me that,” he growls.

Diego has to hand it to him: the citizens of Night Vale are a hardy lot—much quicker to heal than those of Desert Bluffs, but far more fragile in other ways. Their minds are as delicate as butterfly wings, itching to be pulled apart with the slightest twist of his fingers.

“I’m beginning to sense a problem,” Diego says, reaching around to unfasten the buckles against Cecil’s throat. “This Carlos of yours seems to be quite the distraction for you.” He slides off Cecil’s lap and slinks around him, unfastening the restraint around his forehead. “It’s always unfortunate to lose a man with such potential, but we must be efficient.” He curls back around, inhales the intoxicating blood-scent from Cecil’s ear, and sighs.

“What do you say, Palmer? Shall I rid you of this distraction?”

Cecil goes still, his eyes wide and fixed straight ahead. The choking collar is gone, but doesn’t seem to breathe.

And then a sound, almost inaudible.

“What was that, Palmer?”

Cecil turns his head, catches Diego’s lips in a soft kiss.

“Don’t hurt him,” he begs, the noises lost in Diego’s mouth. “I’ll be good.”

This time, he tastes like surrender.


	2. Believe in a Smiling God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil is finally returned to Carlos, but he isn't the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This segment was based on the following prompts and their accompanying illustrations:  
> http://nazi-nurse.tumblr.com/post/66835027700/diegos-arm-was-pressed-down-against-cecils-throat  
> http://nazi-nurse.tumblr.com/post/66767726827/just-answering-all-these-asks-i-hope-its-sexy
> 
> Again, if there are any details that are confusing or difficult to understand, let me know and I'll clarify.

In the end, it’s the Sheriff’s Secret Police that brings Cecil home.

Carlos sees the way the officers carry him— carefully, gingerly, so as not to open his stitches— but he can’t stop himself from shouting at them. What have you done to him? What did he do to deserve this? What the hell kind of torture chamber is this reeducation supposed to be, anyway?

A third officer pulls him aside. Explains.

This isn’t their doing. They’ve been exchanging notes with the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency since Carlos first filed his complaint, and both organizations have come up empty. Until, that is, a few hours ago, when an SSP helicopter spotted Cecil in the sand wastes.

“We took him to the hospital, just to get him patched up,” the officer concludes.

Carlos glances past him, at the blood-stained figure huddled on the couch.

“ _This_ is patched up?” he demands.

The officer shrugs, the gesture at once sympathetic and uncaring. “They stopped the internal bleeding. The rest is just window dressing.”

* * *

 

He sits still. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Don’t look at the figures as they file out of the room. Eyes straight ahead. Good boy.

Another figure approaches. Dark skin. Black hair, with feathers of gray at the temples. The face of a vengeful god. He goes still, tries not to provoke the god’s wrath. Not again.

“Cecil,” the god says. It doesn’t sound right. Like oak and caramel, instead of scalpel-blades and lightning.

Don’t react. React and he’ll start again.

“Cecil, can you hear me?”

He nods.

“Oh, God, Cecil. What happened?”

He hesitates, unsure of how to answer. God happened. Isn’t it obvious?

A divine hand reaches for him, and he can’t restrain himself. He cringes away from the blow before it falls, curls into a ball.

“Do you need to go back to the hospital? Where does it hurt?” God sounds frantic. That can’t be right. His is a smiling god.

The deity picks up his hands, careful not to touch the splinted fingers, and presses holy lips to his knuckles.

He freezes, eyes straight ahead, silent as the void.

_“Who do you belong to, Palmer?”_

_Soft lips sharp teeth digging into his shredded shoulders why why make it stop please—_

_“You.” The word snag in a whimper of pain. “You, God, I belong to you.”_

“Shit— did I hurt you?”

Yes. That’s the point, isn’t it?

“I’ve got some acetaminophen— did they give you something for the pain at the hospital? Shit, shit— give me a second. I swear, I’ll be right back.”

The god rushes away, a whirlwind of anxiety, running his hands through his beautiful hair in between running a kettle and rummaging through cabinets. It occurs to him for the first time that this may not be the god he knows, all razor smiles and composure. But they look the same, and he doesn’t dare risk it.

“This might feel a bit uncomfortable, but it’ll bring down the swelling. Tell me if it hurts, okay?” The god mixes two chemicals in a plastic bag and presses it to his swollen right eye. “We don’t have any ice, but an endothermic reaction should simulate the same— the same—” His voice catches on something, maybe a bit of bone, and tears apart. “Oh God, Cecil. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Something wet moves down the god’s face. Not blood this time. Tears. He’s crying.

Why is he crying?

The god curls around him, forehead on his shoulder, hand on his cheek. Smothering, isolating,  or maybe protective. He doesn’t know anymore. Madness-instinct tells him to move. To touch his god’s shaking shoulder.

“It’s okay, Diego.” His mouth tastes like blood and sand. “Don’t cry.”

The god recoils as though burned, and he braces for the pain. He can already feel the bite of the knife tearing tearing tearing—

“Who’s Diego?” the god demands. “Cecil. Cecil, please— I’m not going to hurt you, I swear— tell me, who’s Diego?”

_Pistol in his mouth barrel slicing into his soft palate blood so much blood suck on it lick it like it’s a lover’s cock and maybe maybe maybe he won’t pull the trigger._

“Cecil, look at me— look at me!” And he forces his eyes heavenward, to look at his frantic god. “It’s me, Cecil. It’s Carlos—”

_“Who is Carlos?” A bullet into his shoulder, dug out with bare hands and then pressed against his face like wet crayon._

_Still he sneers, breathless but still defiant. “A snappier dresser than you’ll ever be.”_

_“Who is Carlos?” A burning brand, spelling the hated name in his flesh. Repeating the question with every stroke of flame._

_“Perfect,” he gasps through screams. “Beautiful.”_

_“Who. Is. Carlos?” Every word punctuated by the snap of broken bone._

_He chokes, and this time there’s not enough left of him to make a sound._

_“Now answer me correctly, Palmer. Who is Carlos?” A whisper, hot breath and rough tongue on his blood-wet neck, softly strangling him with a silk-clad forearm to his throat._

_His lungs scream, but he can only whisper: “N-no one.”_

* * *

 

“Help— police!” Carlos’ shout is barely audible over the screaming, but it’s enough to summon two Secret Police officers to his side. They hold Cecil down, subdue his thrashing enough that he doesn’t further damage his broken bones, and one gives him an injection that makes him fall limp back onto the couch. Normally Carlos would be panicking about dosage and side effects, but this is the Sheriff’s Secret Police— of course they know Cecil’s body mass.

They help him carry Cecil into bed. Carlos kisses his forehead before he retreats from the room, standing just close enough that he can see the steady rise-and-fall of Cecil’s breathing. As much as Carlos wants to be closer, he gets the feeling he’ll just upset him further.

An officer joins him in the hall.

“It’s possible we may have misinterpreted the situation,” the officer says. “If you’d like to fill out the proper paperwork, we can have Mr. Palmer transferred to the abandoned mineshaft outside of town. Our staff there would be better equipped to handle his condition.”

And have Cecil treated by a bunch of balaclava-wearing strangers?

“No thank you. He can get his Game of Thrones fix from here.” It takes a concerted effort not to let acid into his tone. The officer is only trying to help. “Just find out who did this to him. He mentioned someone named Diego.”

“We heard.” The officer coughs politely and pulls a tablet from his pocket. “Investigations are already underway. In the meantime, would you like to fill out Requisition Form 22438-C?”

Carlos pulls his gaze off Cecil long enough to cast the officer a sidelong glance. “Which one is that?” 

“Revenge.”


	3. The Man in the Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil is slowly recovering from what Diego did to him. Carlos is out for revenge— and to get it, he’s joining forces with Tamika Flynn and her army of Advanced Readers.
> 
> This is war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Diego belongs to Nazi Nurse.   
> Special thanks to Meveret (http://meveret.tumblr.com/) for idea bouncing and cheerleading.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at http://jwtroemner.tumblr.com

Carlos is more careful now.

He keeps his distance, doesn’t come within ten feet of Cecil unless he’s invited. When he does have to touch him, he always makes sure to keep clothing or a blanket between them. No skin-to-skin contact. Not anymore.

At night he tucks Cecil into the safe nest of the bed, making sure the last thing Cecil hears at night is “I love you,” and “call me if you need anything; I’ll be right down the hall.” These days Carlos sleeps on the couch, keeping Cecil safe from wandering thoughts and wandering hands.

His care doesn’t stop Carlos from craving his boyfriend’s mouth or the touch of his hands in his hair, but he learns to make do without. When the cravings become too overwhelming he silently manages himself and pretends things are the way they used to be. Back when Cecil thought his mowing the lawn was noteworthy and a haircut was a travesty.

* * *

 

His meetings with Tamika Flynn and her army of Advanced Readers become more frequent. The young woman is a brilliant strategist, and not only because she’s read _The Art of War_ and Rommel’s _Infantry Tactics_ cover to cover. A plan has formed under their feet: the Sheriff’s Secret Police brings them information; Big Rico provides materials; the survivors of the Summer Reading Program will launch the attack.

And Carlos will take down Diego himself.

He had surprisingly little difficulty convincing Tamika of that concession; she admits she appreciates the poetic justice of it all.

He trains with them sometimes, feeling absurdly big and clumsy and old compared to the underage paramilitary force, but they don’t go past childish teasing and he doesn’t want to go into battle unprepared.

And besides, hours of training and exhaustion help take his mind off what’s waiting for him at home.

* * *

 

“Carlos.” Cecil no longer sings the name, but braces for impact. Every syllable is an act of courage, like he’s sticking his hand into a tank full of starved piranhas.

Carlos gives that bravery the attention it deserves, looking up from the psychology texts he’s liberated from the library and flashing a non-threatening smile. “Can I get you anything, Cecil?”  

“No,” he says quickly, shrinking back before he steels himself and comes closer. “There was something I wanted to… try.”

Carlos goes very still, mentally checking himself over. No sudden movements. No extreme facial expressions. His knees are slightly apart, palms out and open. Everything about his posture is geared to be nonthreatening. Cecil approaches with caution, visibly fighting every phobia and impulse Diego has carved into him, until he’s close enough to touch.

Carlos doesn’t try. Doesn’t dare. Not even when Cecil’s fingers weave through his hair. It’s been so long since he felt that gentle tugging at his scalp; the sensation is tangled with memories of Cecil laid bare before him, the taste of his skin, the velvet laugh that used to send chills down Carlos’ spine. It’s all he can do not to throw his head back and moan at the surge of memories. His breath quickens, his eyes roll back, and for an instant Cecil pulls away. Carlos buries the needy sound before it can form and goes still once more.

Cecil buries his hands deeper in Carlos’ hair, just short of massaging the scalp.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft and low.

“Cecil, you have nothing to apologize for.” There’s only one man at fault here, and Carlos won’t speak that name in Cecil’s presence.

* * *

 

His name is Diego Ramirez. Head of the science division at StrexCorp Synernists Incorporated; the highest ranking member of the company beneath the nameless Board of Directors. And it’s no wonder Cecil flinches away from Carlos’ face these days: Diego looks just like him.

Or, he does after Carlos puts a bit of work into it. But black sclera contacts and pomade aren’t all that hard to come by. The suit he borrows from Marcus Vansten (like the Sheriff’s Secret Police, Vansten is fond of Cecil and feeling the strain of StrexCorp’s slow takeover. He even repaints one of his private helicopters to assist in the illusion).

The hardest part, as it turns out, is mastering the _essence_ of Diego. It’s more than the way he walks or the set of his smile. It’s a ruthless confidence, the bone-deep belief that all other beings are beneath him. It takes weeks of study and practice to get it down, but Carlos is nothing if not persistent. It’s one of the many things a scientist is.

* * *

 

There was a time when Carlos made all the first moves in their relationship. Back then, Night Vale still seemed strange and new instead of home, and he’d been on guard always. Now he can appreciate Cecil’s restraint. It’s agony, loving someone so much and keeping quiet so as not to frighten him. Cecil put up with his fear for more than a year. Compared to that, Carlos has it easy.

Thanks to Cecil’s Night Valian constitution, he’s recovering faster than Carlos had dared to hope. Every day his smiles come more frequently, and they burn brighter. His sense of fashion grows braver and more peculiar. He speaks Carlos’ name with more confidence, and then with affection. His touches migrate down from Carlos’ hair to brush his shoulders, take his hand.

* * *

 

It’s been two months. Cecil is still healing, and Carlos is still careful. Still keeps his movements slow and predictable when he hears Cecil’s footsteps behind him. Sometimes Cecil will reach out to him, gently stroke his hair in passing. Massage his shoulders. Sit beside him.

This time he leans in to kiss Carlos on the temple. “Are you busy?”

Open. Inviting. “I’m never too busy for you, Cecil.”

He smiles, and Cecil returns it— more than returns it. Sinks into Carlos’ lap. He buries his hands in Carlos’ hair once more, tangles his fingers in the veins of gray, and kisses him.

Carlos’ heart pounds hard enough to crack ribs. It takes every ounce of control he has not to pull Cecil close against his chest, run his hands all over that beautiful skin, kiss him until he’s breathless— it’s been so long—

Cecil pulls back slightly. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Carlos’ breath comes in gasps. “No, everything’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Cecil smiles, warm and dark and _so Cecil_ it takes his breath away all over again. “I missed this.” He doesn’t give Carlos a chance to say “me too” before he’s kissing him again.

* * *

 

Every day Carlos can feel himself being wound tighter, taut as piano wire and just as ready to cut.

The mornings are spent drilling with the Advanced Readers. He can assemble a side-arm nearly as fast as Tamika Flynn herself, and hit a target from a hundred yards. His afternoons are spent preparing blocks of plastic explosives and vats of acid. And at night, after Cecil has fallen asleep alone in bed, he locks himself into the basement to practice. His impersonation is nearly flawless— he can almost slip into Diego’s mindset like it’s a second skin.

That’s why he insists on sleeping on the couch every night, even though Cecil keeps looking at him like he’s about to offer an invitation to join him.

Because every time Cecil touches him, he can hear Diego’s voice in his head, goading him to move faster, kiss rougher, to pin Cecil down and take what he wants until he’s satisfied. And after Tamika’s training, Carlos knows he’s strong enough— and Cecil still fragile enough— that there would be no stopping him.

He’s taken precautions, of course. A formal request to the Secret Police, filled out in triplicate: if he ever hurts Cecil, if he ever so much as tries, they’re to step in. Stop him. Kill him, if that’s what it takes.

* * *

 

He tilts his head, and Diego’s cheshire-cat smile glints back at him from his reflection. The man in the mirror is as insatiable as he is powerful. He radiates presence, larger than life and absolutely deadly.

He is perfect.

Something crashes upstairs. The sound isn’t enough to break the mirror’s spell— not until it’s followed by Cecil’s cry: “Carlos!”

A sudden wave of panic. Carlos bounds up the stairs three at a time and nearly knocks the door off its hinges. If something happened to Cecil— some Strex thug or some Night Valian horror— it doesn’t matter because he’ll stop it. Nobody’s touching Cecil again. Nobody.

He rounds the corner, his lab coat flying behind him.

There’s Cecil— safe and alive and whole— and for a moment he looks relieved. And then his eyes fall on Carlos.

His face contorts into a look of horror. He shrinks away, backing into a corner.

“No.” It sounds like it was meant to be a scream, but it crumbles into a whisper. “No. No no no please no. Please no. Not again.”

Carlos dives to his side, ready to protect Cecil from whatever’s hurt him, but Cecil hurls himself away. Races down the hall and locks the door behind him.

Panic drives Carlos to desperation. Something’s wrong— Cecil’s in danger— and he can’t see it. He can’t help.

“Cecil!” He shouts, slamming against the door. “Cecil, let me in!”

Inside, Cecil makes a sound like he’s wounded.

A crash behind him— a door being forced off its hinges. Suddenly hands are grabbing Carlos by the arms, dragging him away from the door. From Cecil.

“No!” He thrashes, wild and desperate. “I need to— Cecil! Cecil!”

He drives an elbow into a kevlar-covered solar plexus, throws a second figure to the ground. A third lands on top of him, pinning him to the floor. “Sir, you’re going to need to come with us.”

Carlos stops his struggles. Not because he’s down, not because he’s outnumbered. Because he can see his reflection in the officer’s dark goggles.

His hair is slicked flat against his skull; his eyes are soulless and black.

In his panic, he didn’t stop to take off the costume.

* * *

 

It’s been a long time since Carlos slept at the lab, but he still finds his sleeping bag and a change of clothes in the supply closet where he left them. They’re holdovers from a time when he put science before personal relationships and thought self-reliance was the most important thing a scientist can be.

Self reliance. It feels like a bad joke. He can’t even trust himself not to hurt Cecil anymore.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police explained the situation when they dropped him off at the lab: Cecil had a nightmare and went looking for Carlos, and wound up tripping over something in the dark. That was it. No crisis, no danger. Nobody for Carlos to blame but himself.

The Secret Police will keep an eye on Cecil. The Faceless Old Woman will take care of him. The best thing Carlos can do now is just stay away.

* * *

 

He doesn’t call Cecil. Doesn’t want to trigger anything with the sound of his voice. Instead he texts.

He writes huge letters, messages long enough to be broken up into pieces when they’re sent. Explanations and apologies typed into the phone with shaking hands, edited over and over and over again— and then deleted.

The only ones he sends: _I love you_ and _I’m sorry_

Cecil doesn’t reply. Carlos tries not to think too hard about whether he can’t or he simply doesn’t want to.

* * *

 

The date is set. Sheriff’s Secret Police have forwarded Carlos Diego’s schedule and the relevant passcodes. Advanced Readers are already making their way across the desert in twos and threes, camouflaged to avoid detection.

At the end of the week, Carlos will fly out to join them.

* * *

 

“Ugh. You are _such_ a _jerk_.”

Carlos is pretty sure he’s dreaming right now. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamed about Cecil. Of course, these days most of those dreams involve Cecil being either naked or armed (or both), but there’s a first time for everything.

Carlos sits up in his sleeping bag, pulls on his glasses, and delivers a remarkably eloquent “huh?”

Cecil crosses his arms indignantly. “I looked everywhere for you. I was worried sick. And here you are, in your lab, completely _fine_!”

Oh. It’s going to be one of _those_ dreams.

The last time he had one of these dreams, he responded with ‘Of course I’m fine. You’re here.’ Then the Dream Cecil had kicked his teeth in.

A previous time he’d answered ‘Are you kidding? I’m a nervous wreck without you.’ And then Dream Cecil had turned around and walked away.

So Carlos just looks at him, his vision slowly coming back into focus. “I hurt you, Cecil.”

“And don’t think I’m about to let you off the hook for it, either,” Cecil starts, but something catches. Frowning, he kneels beside Carlos. “You’re not talking about leaving, are you?”

“Did the Secret Police tell you?” It’s a dream, so what the hell. Carlos reaches up to cup Cecil’s cheek. Even in this fantasy, Cecil cringes at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away. “That was me. Dressed as Diego.”

Cecil’s eyes go cold and hard. Carlos can practically see the scream building in his throat.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t— you weren’t supposed to see.” The words tumble out of Carlos’ mouth, a chain reaction. “I didn’t mean to hurt you— I could never—”

Cecil pulls away, his jaw set tight. “Why?”

“Because he hurt you.” The most obvious answer in the world. “I’m going to put on his face and I’m going to walk into his office and I’m going to kill him. I’m going to bring down his whole goddamn company for what he did to you. He’s never going to touch you again.”

Silence.

Cecil stares at him in silence, his brows knit tight.

This is where it happens. This is the part of the dream where Cecil punches him or stabs him or shoots him and leaves him bleeding while he walks away. And Carlos can’t handle that. Not again.

“And I’m going to find whatever contract says he owns the radio station and I’m going to burn it to ash. You’re getting your show back, because— dammit, Cecil, you always sounded so _happy_ when you were on the radio.”

The ice cracks, and a soft smile brushes Cecil’s lips. He wraps his arms around Carlos’ shoulders and pulls him close, burying his head in the crook of his neck.

This isn’t a dream.

“I missed you,” he whispers into his hair. “I missed you so much.”

* * *

 

They make love with the unzipped sleeping bag between their bodies and the cold tile of the lab. Carlos worships every inch of Cecil’s body, naming every bone and tendon and muscle that makes up Cecil as he anoints them with kisses. Every movement is slow, gentle, and oh so careful— because Cecil is stronger now, but he’s still healing. It’s only when Cecil tangles his hands root-deep in black hair and _pulls_ that Carlos lets go, answering each begging moan with driving thrusts that send them both careening over the edge.

They fall asleep tangled up in one another for the first time in far too long.

* * *

 

The sun rises, too bright and too early. Instead of the usual loud crack of dawn, the light is accompanied by a metallic buzz.

A text message from Tamika Flynn:

_It’s time._


	4. A Rain of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good man goes to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of the third installment, but I've made it into its own chapter because the format is so different from what came before, and it's long enough to stand on its own.

Listeners.

This is Cecil Palmer, back from my hiatus. Some of you may be aware of my forced retirement at the hands of the barbarians at StrexCorp Synernists Incorporated. Those of you who aren’t…

Anyway.

We’re overriding tonight’s scheduled broadcast with the assistance of Station Management, which, upon its release by the Sheriff’s Secret Police, proceeded to corporeally absorb the StrexCorp staff that had usurped control of the radio station. Station Management has since returned to its rightful place in the transdimensional office at the back of the station, but has helpfully left the broadcasting equipment on and in tact.

Thank you, Station Management.

Listeners, not an hour ago, my brave Carlos arrived on the helipad of StrexCorp’s headquarters and marched deep into the bowels of that hellish spire. StrexCorp’s thuggish security force parted when he passed because, like ancient warriors who rode into battle wearing masks depicting ogres and demons, brave Carlos was disguised as the black-eyed devil himself.

On the pretense of inspection, Carlos entered the security control centers, server rooms, and research levels—each a nerve center for the company’s key functions— and planted powerful electromagnets of his own construction.

At precisely 3:15—just minutes ago, dear listeners— the timers attached to these devices went off, along with dozens of plastic explosives planted at strategic locations by Tamika Flynn and her army of Advanced Readers.

Listeners, the carnage is— amazing. Fire, concrete and steel are raining down. Papers are falling, caught on the wind and flying away like a blizzard. Smoke is pouring skyward and blotting out the light of the artificial sun, while broken glass glitters on the streets below like starlight.

All around, the Advanced Readers are engaged in combat, carrying weapons improvised, smuggled and stolen in their tiny-but-powerful hands. They are overtaking Strex cars and jeeps. Those whose legs are long enough to reach the pedals are claiming the captured vehicles as their own, and driving down the blood-soaked streets at far above the legal speed limit.

Meanwhile Carlos is— he’s been climbing up blackened hollow of a silent elevator shaft. He’s stepping out just now. His hair is disheveled and his pristine suit is smeared with axle grease. He’s walking across the penthouse that makes up the tower’s top floor. And there are guards— they’re coming right at him!

Oh.

There aren’t. Anymore.

You know, you’d really think I’d get used to seeing that color, what with all the fighting going on below.

Ahem.

Listeners, I’d like to take this moment to commend fourteen-year-old Barrie Runs-Swiftly for his remarkable sharpshooting skills, and thank him for so diligently teaching Carlos how to handle an automatic weapon.

Shots are being returned. Not from the guards— there are no more guards. Only one man.

Di—

Carlos is taking cover behind a marble column. Bullets are flying through the air, slicing through the shadows between them, ricocheting off the steel and stone, embedding themselves in the gold—

Carlos has been hit! His arm spasms— there’s so much blood— no, no, it’s just a grazing wound. He stands up and flattens himself against the next pillar. He’s reloading his weapon.

That devil has stopped shooting. It’s hard to hear anything; the air is buzzing with the remembered roar of gunfire and the sounds of combat coming from below.

And— and a radio—

CARLOS, BEHIND YOU!

[several seconds of labored breathing]

Ca-

Carlos.

Carlos is… he’s standing. Over— over the other man. There’s a splash of red blooming across the man’s chest. That devil is staggered back, sliding down a pillar. A bright streak of blood follows him to the ground.

The man reaches for another gun, but Carlos steps on his hand.

Carlos is— speaking. To the man. Telling him why.

One last time a finger squeezes a trigger, and Carlos walks away. The other man is dead.

Ah—

Hem.

Listeners, I have another report here. Tamika Flynn has breached the StrexCorp holding facility. She has located and liberated Old Woman Josie. Jill Donaldson and Deepesh Patel are helping her into one of the jeeps, which will return her to her home by the car lot. Other prisoners are streaming out of the facility, blinking in the unexpected afternoon light.

Another man runs past Carlos on his way out of the burnt-out husk of a building. The man has hair like mine, and eyes like mine, but he is not me. His face is contorted in an expression of… of horror.

He makes his way to the penthouse. There are many bodies scattered across the floor, but he pauses before one. His hands cover his face. He falls to his knees.

Listeners, in moments like these we must remember that even the most vile beasts have someone who loves them. Even the cruelest souls will be missed.

And I am… sorry.

I’m sorry.

Not to see that monster destroyed, but to see the grief his loss brings to this man.

Elsewhere, a song is rising up from the wreckage. A battle hymn, led by Tamika Flynn herself.

Night is falling. Strex is defeated. The war is won.

My Carlos is walking through the rubble back to the helipad. He climbs in, slumps down in his seat. The black contact lenses lie abandoned on the painted logo under his feet, and they are blown away by the whirling rotor blades as the helicopter takes off.

He’s not unwounded, but he is safe.

And he’s finally coming home.


End file.
